Page 22 of Gym Bros
“Same time tomorrow, then?” he asks.
“Yeah. Sure.” Picking up my phone, I transfer a hundred bucks to him using Zelle, the same as I did yesterday. When I look up from the screen, I find Calyx looking at my arm. I’ll be the first to admit, I have some really stupid tattoos.
The one he’s looking at is the face of a saber-toothed tiger on my right deltoid. It’s actually one of the better ones, but my random collection says more about the day I got a particular tattoo than myself as a person. I have everything from a Ghandi quote to an LA Flames logo. There’s the date I lost my virginity on my hip, and an octagon on my pec. I don’t know, maybe theydo say something about me. A bunch of random shit that hasn’t come together to make a full picture yet.
Calyx meets my eyes while I’m looking at him.
“Saber,” he says.
“Yeah?”
“No, I just mean—” he blinks and shakes his head. “Never mind. I’ll figure out your name eventually, you know?”
“It’s Sam,” I tell him. “Samuel.”
His head drops back with a relieved sigh. His throat is long and smooth without a trace of stubble. “Yes. Thank you. Samuel.”
“No one calls me that.” I regret telling him already. I can’t have him latching onto it.
“Surely some people do. Your father, for example.”
“Well, yeah, but?—”
“Not that I’m saying you don’t look like a Saber—I’m sure you’re very intimidating in a cage fight or whatever?—”
“It’s not about?—”
“But Samuel suits you fine,” he goes on as if I hadn’t spoken.
“Why do I have to call you your fake name?”
“It’s not fake,” he says. “It’s who I am. Who I’ve been since I was fourteen. I won’t answer to anything else.”
“What about what your parents call you?”
“They call me Calyx. Like everyone else.” His smile is faint, like he’s beaten me in this round.
I narrow my eyes. “Did you go through some sort of phase or something? Like where you were questioning your identity?”
“Something like that,” he says and stands.
“Fine. Don’t tell me.” God forbid we have aconversation.
“It was a rude question,” he says.
“Was it?”
I’m not as graceful about it, but I stand, too, relying heavilyon my left leg when I bend to pick up my bag. I’m sure I wouldn’t hurt myself if I bent normally, but favoring my leg has become a habit I need to break as soon as possible. For balance’s sake. “I mean, I assume as a model, you’re aware of what you look like.”
What he looks like now is stricken. “Like a girl?”
“Not quite,” I say. “No. You’re…”
He stares impatiently at me as I get stuck for a word. His accusation is catching up with me, though. I’m not rude. Curious, sure, butrude?
“Interesting,” I finally shove from my throat.
“Hm. All right.”
